Scandalized

And there it is, the entwined bliss and tragedy of this. He makes me feel beautiful, even sweaty and spent on a rumpled hotel bed.

He shifts back, stands, and walks to the bathroom. The water runs, and Alec returns with a warm, wet cloth, bending to clean my fingers, my neck, between my breasts.

“To think,” I say, using my free hand to finger-comb his hair off his forehead, “I came here thinking I was getting information and we did this instead. I can’t even be mad that I lost two hours of editing time.”

Alec pauses as he folds the washcloth inside out and then carefully runs the clean side over my neck again. He lets out a quiet sound of acknowledgment, a rumble in his throat. “I promise I’ll tell you if and when I can.”

I tilt my head, looking up at him. “Actually, you probably couldn’t tell me anything on the record anyway. We’ve sort of destroyed any objectivity.”

Setting the washcloth on the bedside table, Alec lies down facing me on his side, head propped on a hand. “Well, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable talking to anyone but you about this.”

“Alec, what is going on?” My question ends just as a single, sharp knock lands on the door.

He startles, glancing toward the door before his attention bolts to the clock beside the bed. I don’t even bother to look. I’m sure we’re out of time, but I’m made suddenly uneasy by his tone. He seems upset—devastated, really; it’s the first time it occurs to me that this might not be as straightforward as Alec knowing someone who knows something. If he doesn’t answer my next question, Yael Miller will actually have to drag me out of the room by my feet.

“Hey,” I say, touching his chin, redirecting his attention to me, and trying to keep my voice steady, my hands from shaking. “At least tell me I don’t have to worry about your safety.”

“I’m okay,” he says with convincing urgency. “I really am.” His gaze drops to where his finger draws spirals on my collarbone. The knock lands again, twice this time. “But that’s the best I can do before Yael walks in here.”

Seven

To say that I’m distracted when I get home is an understatement. Alec has information about the story I have been thinking about during nearly every waking hour for the past month, and I have no idea what it is, when I’m going to hear it, or if someone is going to get it before I do. I understand he had to clear it with his source, but will it change everything I’ve already written? I can tell it’s not just a small bite, either, but something important. Something big enough to make his face remain tight and shuttered, even when he walked me to the door and kissed me goodbye.

It was a hesitant peck, but to be fair we both knew it would be: we were dressed, put back together—he as a polished actor, me as a hungry journalist—with the weight of a bombshell of unknown magnitude between us.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said, adding, “Don’t worry. I mean it.”

“When are you done tonight?”

“Late.” And then he pressed a sleek iPhone into my hand. “I promise to call tomorrow.”

I stared down at it. “This isn’t mine.”

“I’d like us to use different numbers than our usual, if that’s okay. I’ve put my private number in the contacts there.”

I laughed at this—called him 007 Casanova, named the gadget my Batphone—but my smile faded as the truth sunk in: fooling around with Alec after knowing he had information created a slew of personal and professional conflicts. “Okay, yeah, good thinking.”

He kissed me, quickly, letting Yael in, and they bolted into action getting him ready for his flurry of interviews while I took the elevator back downstairs.

Of course, I google him a second time as soon as I’m home, looking for something different now. Last time, I wanted to figure out why people might wait for him at LAX; this time I want hints as to who he spends time with, where he’s been caught by photographers and fans, who he might know that’s even tangentially related to Jupiter.

But when I do a deep internet dive, I’m relieved to find that Alexander Kim isn’t seen in public very often at all. His social conduct seems completely respectable. Most of the places he’s been photographed are airports, museums, red carpets, and on set.

There’s not even a whiff of an association with Jupiter.

My stomach drops when my phone rings.

“Hey, Billy,” I say, leaning back in my desk chair and squeezing my eyes closed.

“How’s it coming?”

“It’s done,” I admit. “Just working on edits.”

“With the new info from this morning?” he asks, his words distracted and clipped. I imagine him at his desk, two-day-stubbled, sipping cold coffee, reading something else while he checks in with me.

I pause, letting out a long, slow breath. I could disclose my relationship with Alec. I should, probably. But I know what would happen: Billy’d pull me from the story, pass it to someone else. I’m too close to give this up, and it’s not like Alec told me anything, anyway.

“His source backed out,” I say. “He didn’t have permission to discuss it once I got there.”